


Cygnus

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maglor finds himself a treat.





	Cygnus

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for Aruawolfgirl200’s “Eönwë/Maglor, #17 (Pet Turns Into A Person)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He crumbles the bread into his basket as he walks, and the servants no longer give him strange looks—they know where he’s headed. His father’s estate is vast and full of wonders, but the little courtyard hidden away in the East Wing is his favourite. Kanafinwë goes there often, usually carting food, sometimes only his harp, and always a smile. When he steps out into the midday sun, he stops to breathe in the crisp air. The lush, emerald grass grows thick around the paving stones, and the small pond in the center is a sight to behold. The flowers that thrive around it are all in bloom, the single willow full of light streaming through its leaves. Kanafinwë soaks it in and gazes at the gentle water, pleased to see what he always hopes for: the pure white feathers of an enormous swan. 

Kanafinwë drifts towards it, as he always does; he’s made friends with this graceful creature, and it often comes to him on land, sitting in lap while he strums his harp or nestling at his side where he can stroke its back and long neck. Today it floats towards him, its elegant head turning to eye Kanafinwë. Kanafinwë reaches one hand into his basket, ready to bring it another treat—a recipe Kanafinwë has made specifically for this, more than healthy for a swan. 

The swan lifts its wings as though to come to him, and then a clap of blinding light sends Kanafinwë toppling backwards. He drops the basket and lands on his rear, turning away and cringing at the flash, even as it recedes a moment later. His eyes still burn against his lids. His first thought is that lightning’s struck him, despite the perfectly clear day.

Then he opens his eyes, squinting through what’s left of the glare, and he can only see a silhouette—the black outlines of a beast somewhere between bird and elf. The lines of great wings are drawing in, a tall neck falling lower, short legs growing out. Kanafinwë tries to see it clearly, bearing the pain until his eyes adjust and the day is as it was, and a swan no longer sits before him.

Instead, a man stands in the pond. Only knee-deep, he’s naked, pale and bright, with yellow-orange hair like the fire of the sun. It streams long over his shoulders, down his back, highlighting his chiseled face and his strong chest. His form is lithe but taut, toned, thinly muscled and exquisite. His eyes are as piercing as his body is handsome. For a long moment, Kanafinwë can do nothing but stare.

Then the man drops his gaze to his own hands, lifting them curiously. He flexes his fingers as though seeing them, feeling them, for the first time. Kanafinwë knows, though it makes no sense at all, where this gorgeous creature came from. 

He picks himself up on shaken legs, while the man is still examining his body and distracted by it. Kanafinwë comes closer, one careful step at a time, not wanting to startle his guest away. When he reaches the bank, he asks, voice hoarse with shock, “What are you?”

“Eönwë,” the man answers, blinking up at him with an odd mix of wonderment and surety. “A swan.”

“Not anymore,” Kanafinwë manages. He rolls the name over in his mind: _Eönwë_ , and finds it fittingly lovely. 

Eönwë tilts his head, and Kanafinwë follows the movement. It’s difficult not to stare elsewhere, but he’s the son of a lord and knows his manners. After a moment, Eönwë puzzles out, “I... prayed to the Valar to give me a form to thank you in. For always visiting me. For bringing food, and singing to me, and stroking me beneath my beak and between my wings as I like. I... regretted that I could go no further with you.” 

Despite the diplomatic upbringing, Kanafinwë can feel his cheeks heating. If he’d known he’d been attending a sentient being like this, he would’ve been more thoughtful in his touches. But he hardly regrets them; Eönwë’s new form is stunning. He’s not sure which of them the Valar have truly blessed.

Before he can say anymore, he hears footsteps in the distance, back within the halls, and it startles Kanafinwë to life. He knows he’ll have difficulty explaining this, especially to his father’s suspicious mind, and if the newcomer is Curufinwë or Turcafinwë, they’ll surely rat him out. Morifinwë would be instantly challenging. He doesn’t want Pityafinwë or Telufinwë to see this, and he knows even Nelyafinwë would have a good laugh at him. And that isn’t even getting into all the servants that reside with them. He offers his hand, glad when Eönwë reaches out to take it. But Eönwë only lays it there, and Kanafinwë has to close his fingers around Eönwë’s palm, demonstrating the grip.

He gently tugs Eönwë up by it, and Eönwë comes obediently out of the pond, climbing up to solid ground and dripping out a little puddle. Kanafinwë tries not to look down at it. He tries not to look down at all, though he increasingly wants to. Eönwë smells strangely of lavender up close, and his hand is wondrously warm.

Kanafinwë uses it to pull him swiftly across the courtyard, the opposite way of the sound. He guides them indoors, to which Eönwë instantly starts looking around—he’s only followed Kanafinwë inside a few times before, and each time, a servant was quick to shoo him out again, despite Kanafinwë’s insistence otherwise. Now they’d probably shoo him straight out the front gate, so Kanafinwë takes the least common route to his own quarters. He hides them down many side corridors on the way, ducking out of site whenever he hears anyone coming. Eönwë quietly accepts each action, his personality seemingly as demure as it was in his prior form, only now infused with the curiosity of newness. He stops often to eye things, and each time, Kanafinwë pulls him on and promises, “Later.”

When they finally reach Kanafinwë’s suite, he ushers Eönwë quickly in and is sure to lock the door behind them. Eönwë’s hand falls from his. Eönwë takes a few lilting steps into the room, then stops to look everywhere—the high, golden ceiling, engraved in an elaborate mural, the tall columns and crown moldings that line the walls, the mahogany and marble furniture, and the four-poster bed that rests in the far corner just before the veranda, hemmed off in a wall of windows. While Eönwë takes it in, Kanafinwë walks to the attached closet. He’s often thought the room too large, but perhaps if he’s clothing two of them, the innumerous robes might make more sense. He selects a silken set as white as Eönwë’s now-gone feathers and brings them out into the main room.

Eönwë is pressing a hand against the wall, drifting across the surface, perhaps marveling at the smoothness. Such phenomenon seems only to occur at the bottom of streams in nature. Kanafinwë holds out his robes and says, “Here.”

Eönwë glances at them. There’s absolutely no comprehension in his eyes, although surely he must’ve noticed that Kanafinwë wears extra garments— _his_ feathers always change. Yet Kanafinwë finds the innocence oddly endearing, and he smiles as he steps behind Eönwë, brushing aside Eönwë’s long hair and holding the opened robes up against his back. 

Eönwë looks over his shoulder, still lost, until Kanafinwë takes his wrist and guides it through one sleeve. Then he seems to understand, and he mirrors the movement on the other side, letting Kanafinwë draw the robes up him. When it rests properly around him, Kanafinwë comes back to the front to draw the sash. It’s a shame to hide certain parts of Eönwë’s flawless body before he’s gotten the chance to properly examine it, but he supposes he’ll wait until Eönwë understands the significance. Then he thinks of this amazing creature asking to be transformed just for _him_ , and it makes him smile to his core.

He steps back to admire his work, feeling strangely light with pleasure. Eönwë stares back at him, mouth in an untouched line but eyes swimming with life. Kanafinwë asks next, “Are you hungry?”

Eönwë answers, “No,” which is probably best for now, as Kanafinwë forgot his basket in the courtyard, and he doesn’t know what to feed swan-turned-elves. This will take some explaining to the kitchen staff. 

It’ll be worth it, he thinks. Even the inevitable conversation with his father. Then it occurs to him to ask, “Do you plan on turning back?”’

“I hope not,” Eönwë says, looking genuinely troubled at the prospect. “I want to be with you.”

Kanafinwë blinks and nothing more. He realizes that he’d also jumped to that conclusion, though there was no basis for it. There’s no precedent. He doesn’t even know what to do with a swan.

But he does know _Eönwë_ , if only in certain, bizarre ways, and he knows he wants to learn the rest. He’s honoured to be the one the Valar trust to enlighten this ethereal being. He’s still paused, taking in Eönwë’s beauty, when Eönwë leans forward to brush his lips tentatively over Kanafinwë’s.

Kanafinwë doesn’t even have a chance to respond. Eönwë straightens again and lifts his fingers to his lips. He touches and looks down at them, brow knit in puzzlement. Kanafinwë feels just as bewildered. 

Then Eönwë looks up at him again and asks, “Will you show me how?”

So Kanafinwë smiles brighter and nods.


End file.
